


Doors

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: holmestice, F/M, M/M, Smut, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two unpublished cases not only stand as memorials to significant changes in the relationship between Holmes and Watson, but they also both involve closets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doors

**Author's Note:**

> A Holmestice fic for verilyvexed. She asked for slashy Victorian case!fic smut. Requestor gets what requestor wants – at least to the best of the author’s ability to do so. ;-) If the idea of men lusting after and having sex with other men offends you, turn back now. 
> 
> This fic contains: Smut. References to drug use. Random historical references. My own odd sense of humor. Attempts to tie in not one but two mentioned-but-never-documented ACD canon cases. Bonus-point words provided by the requestor (all four). And this fic was my first time EVER attempting to write m/m slash. If any of these things aren't your cup of tea, this might not be the story for you.

Over the years, when writing up some of the cases of Sherlock Holmes for eventual publication, I have not infrequently made reference to other, unpublished affairs. This is not accidental. Sometimes these references are messages, targeted to certain pairs of eyes who will recognize the meaning or warning, even as the rest of the reading public remains in ignorance. Sometimes they are genuine declarations of intent, memorandums to myself of cases that really do deserve to be told – and not incidentally encourage the editors of Strand Magazine to urge me to tell those selfsame stories. Occasionally, however, they stand as reminders – to myself, to Holmes, to the both of us – of incidents in our lives that we would do well to remember, although the details of those incidents must, by necessity, remain a secret from the public at large.

Two such of the latter type are the Adventure of the Amateur Mendicant Society and the Affair of Ex-President Murillo’s Papers. Neither case is accurately named in my published accounts, and in the case of the Amateur Mendicant Society, I also deliberately misstated the year in which those events took place. However, the actual cases I so mention under those _noms du guerre_ are crystal-clear to the both of us. And, oddly enough, both cases are linked not only in that they stand as memorials to significant changes in the relationship between Holmes and myself, but in that they both involve closets.

The true facts surrounding the discovery of the clandestine activities (and subsequent disbanding) of that pseudonymous society have been necessarily suppressed. The good names of several important political and social figures would be irredeemably besmirched should the scandal ever come to light. Indeed, that was the ultimate goal of the mastermind behind the affair. Rumours of the scandalous activities had already reached one particular set of ears, which led our client to engage Holmes in the first place. This, in turn, led to Holmes breaking into a particular furniture warehouse early one spring evening, myself in tow, guarding his back as he deftly picked the lock.

“What are we searching for?” I asked in a low whisper once we were safely inside. The warehouse was quite large, and looked crammed to the rafters with a bewildering variety of furnishings.

“Nothing on this floor,” Holmes answered quietly, raising his dark lantern. “But if my informant is truthful, there is a basement below, where we will find a much different scene. There should be a stairwell concealed against the back wall.”

We found it after a little searching, and made our way cautiously down its steps. The basement was indeed a very different place. Even in the dim light of our lanterns, I could see that it was luxuriously, even opulently, furnished, with expensive carpets covering the floors, ottomans and settees arranged in casual groups, and large, gilded mirrors hanging on the walls. Low, round tables were placed in the centre of some of the groupings. It reminded me faintly of some of the sights I had seen in my travels, some elements partaking of the opulence of the Far East, others echoing what I had seen in the ruins of Greece and Rome.

“What is this place?” I asked, perplexed. “A club of some kind?”

“Of a kind, yes.” Holmes looked at me gravely. “Watson, I intend to conceal myself and observe the events I expect to ensue here tonight. If you remain to watch with me, I must warn you that you will likely witness scenes that might deeply shock you. Nonetheless, you must remain silent, a passive observer, for discovery could very well prove fatal. If you prefer to return to Baker Street –”

“Nonsense,” I told him sharply, stung. “If you are staying, then so am I. I can remain silent, and I assure you, I am not easily shocked.”

A faint smile hovered at the corner of Holmes’ lips. “I thought as much. I know my Watson. Come with me, then, and we shall see what we shall see.”

Holmes led me to one side of the room, where what looked like decorative pierce-work actually concealed a closet or small storage space. This too was locked, but proved no obstacle to Holmes’ lockpicking skills. There were a few large pillows and a stack of table linens stored inside, but nothing else. The door was wide, just enough so that there was room for the two of us to squeeze side-by-side and view the room through the holes in the decorative screen. Holmes did something to the handle after we were safely inside.

“That should prevent anyone from being able to open the door, even if they bring a key,” he whispered in my ear. He slid the shutters closed on our lanterns, leaving us in darkness. “Now, Watson, we wait.”

It wasn’t exactly comfortable inside the closet, but I have awaited events in far less salubrious circumstances. It was not long before we heard the sound of voices coming down the stairs. Light flared, stabbing at my eyes even through the screen. Squinting, I saw that gas lamps had been lit all along the walls. Several people, whom I took to be servants, started unpacking large hampers of food: platters of glazed fruits, trays of meats and cheeses, stacks of pastries. These were placed on the round tables, along with large earthenware containers and gilded goblets. Puzzled, I glanced over at Holmes. Enough light came through the screen to illuminate his expression. He seemed intent, but unsurprised by their actions.

The servants soon departed, their preparations apparently complete. Perhaps half-an-hour passed, and then Holmes tensed beside me. I strained my senses, and discerned what his keener ears had already detected: the sound of people moving around in the warehouse above us. A fair number of them, I guessed from the faint noises reaching us through the thickness of the beams separating the floors. And indeed, I counted more than thirty people entering the basement before I lost track, my mind finally too distracted to maintain the count. I had half-imagined many possibilities for what I might see, but none of my theories came close to the bizarre reality before me. Men streamed into the room, some masked, most not, but all wearing carefully-tailored reproductions of classical garb: togas, chitons, an occasional robe. There were a few women, too, all masked, and from the less well-fitting nature of their classical draperies and their general behaviour, I quickly guessed that they were ‘hired’ to be present, rather than actual members of the society.

The crowd settled down around the tables, and at first I thought we were witnessing no more than a Roman-styled feast. The revellers fed themselves and each other from the abundant piles, and dipped their goblets into the earthenware vats, bringing them up dripping with red wine. Some licked the drops away from the metal while others laughed. All in all it looked to be a bizarre hobby, to be sure, and vaguely scandalous given the revealing nature of many of the costumes, but hardly shocking to an ex-Army veteran, doctor, and man of the world.

I did not realize how naïve my supposition truly was until many minutes later, when, sated with food and drink, the assembled guests turned their attention to satisfying other appetites. This was no simple costumed feast. This was a genuine Roman orgy. And like the Romans, and the Greeks before them, the desires of the flesh were not confined strictly between male and female. Some broke off from the most crowded areas, seeking relative seclusion, while others remained in full sight of their compatriots. Bodies touched and then writhed together, some in pairs, some in groups. Cries of pleasure filled the air, along with other, less immediately distinguishable noises. The sounds and sights carried easily to our hiding place, even more so when a couple chose to avail themselves of a low divan not eight feet distant. The two men kissed ardently before one pulled away, only to bring his mouth down to the other man’s groin.

My face flushed scarlet as rapturous moans reached my ears. That was not the only area of my body to heat. I knew I should look away. It was sheer madness to watch, not least because Holmes was _right next to me_. Any moment now, and he might notice my condition. I had to hold myself perfectly still. I could not allow him to see…

Strong fingers grasped my chin in an almost cruel grip. Holmes turned my head towards him, his lean features mere inches from mine. In the scattered light let through by the screen, I could see his eyes flicker over my face and body, taking in everything, knowing in mere seconds what I had hoped to keep hidden from him. Not only did I desire men as well as women, but I lusted in particular after the man whose eyes read every secret fantasy throbbing through my brain. I wanted nothing more than to do as those other men were doing, to have my head between his legs, feel his hands gripping my shoulders, to know him in every way.

But the light fell on him, too, and unable to look away, I in turn saw what I had never expected to see. His lean body tensed, his groin taut, his pupils wide, his whole being vibrating with wakened desire as profound as my own. My breath caught in my throat.

He let my chin go, and seized my nearest hand in his, nearly crushing it. For the briefest moment I thought he might pull me to him, and I leaned closer, anticipating what we might do together, there in the privacy of this screened closet. But Holmes gave me a stern look, shook his head once, and deliberately returned his attention to the scenes outside. Humiliated, I realized I had forgotten all about the investigation, though clearly Holmes had not. We were here to observe, and so observe we would. Together, hand in hand, we waited there in that closet, until the last of the revellers departed and we were free to go.

I am no stranger to danger. Nor am I averse to risk. Neither, of course, is Holmes. We are not foolhardy, but we have voluntarily faced many hazards in our lives.

The journey that night from the warehouse back to Baker Street was in some ways one of the most perilous undertakings of my entire life. Not to mention one of the most nerve-wracking.

We were not careless enough to slake our desires at the warehouse, with dawn not far off and servants or workers potentially arriving at any moment. After his silent rebuke in the closet, I knew that satiety would have to wait until we were behind our own locked doors. But as I followed Holmes through the darkened streets, straining every sinew to match his pace, I could not tear my eyes from his lean flanks, or my thoughts from the raging ache in my groin. A clatter momentarily roused me to the necessity for alertness – we were in one of the more unsavoury parts of London – but it was merely a cat bounding after some hidden prey.

A scant moment later, I found myself pulled into the deepest shadow of the alley and shoved against the rough stone of the wall. Holmes’ mouth was on mine in an instant, stifling any outcry I might have made. It was sheer insanity – I knew that even then – but I pulled him closer, pressing my body full-length against his instead of pushing him away. I could not help myself. An involuntary moan broke from my throat, to be swallowed and lost between his lips.

The very next second, Holmes was off of me, and striding away, hurrying back to Baker Street with even more speed than before. He scarcely seemed to glance behind, much less wait for me, but I knew he knew I was there. I had proof of it, repeatedly, for every time we reached another dark, secluded corner or half-hidden alleyway, Holmes was on me again, kissing me ruthlessly until I made some sound, some noise of pleasure or surrender.

It was utter madness. Twice we were nearly seen, once by a passing hansom driver, another by a constable walking his beat. By the time we reached our doorstep, I was literally at my wits’ end, and could barely think or walk from the lust coursing through my veins.

We became lovers that night. I say “lovers,” but really, it is hard to imagine anything _less_ lover-like than Holmes in that period of our lives. I had more tender encounters in the Army. Our first tryst was little more than desperate groping, hands delving beneath each other’s clothes and frantically tugging on flesh tortured by hours of frustrated arousal. I had seen more of Holmes’ naked form before than I did that night. But the flesh I did see was flushed with passion and blazing with all the heat of the no-longer-hidden fires that quickly consumed us both.

That we should bring each other off so hastily the first time was hardly surprising. The initial urgency of desire could not have been met any other way, even without the extraordinary provocation we had endured. Afterwards, we retired to our separate rooms, but I was already anticipating what I might do with him the next time, when we were both less maddened and close to our finishes. I longed to see him before me, fully nude, but accessible as he had never been in bath-houses and shared hotel chambers. I dreamed that night of languid interludes and tender, intimate moments. However, our subsequent, infrequent encounters were much the same as my first experience with him. Our sexual relations were limited to hands and occasionally mouths, rarely lasted more than a few minutes, and were nearly always at Holmes’ whim. The few times I attempted to initiate things, or press for more, Holmes reacted so coldly that I quickly lost the desire to try again.

Given all of this, one might wonder why I continued with him as long as I did. At the time, I often wondered that myself. I had certainly had more attentive and enthusiastic partners in the past. But I did not want others; I wanted Holmes. And there were other moments, too, that gave me hope. Sometimes, immediately after finding his release, he would lean into me, pressing close, and allow me to hold him. There were days when he would cradle me in his wiry arms with something approaching tenderness as I shuddered with pleasure. And occasionally – very occasionally – I thought I caught a glimpse of desire in his gaze, brought on not by the usual stimulus of adrenaline or adventure, but by me, for me, myself.

Unfortunately, whatever desires he felt for me were far outweighed by the other cravings in his life: for his cases, his violin, and increasingly, his drugs. I never minded the first, and could tolerate being second fiddle to his Strad, but I did not want him when he was manic with cocaine, and he felt no wish for me when under morphine’s torpid spell. Our friendship withstood the strain of his increasing drug usage – barely – but our other relations did not. Holmes abandoned our affair entirely in favour of his drugs long before I ever met Mary.

Oh, Mary.

I loved her for many reasons. She gave me so many gifts: her love, her support, her intelligent humour, her capable calm. Not least of the blessings she gave me was that in loving her, I came to realize that I loved Holmes as well. I loved him just as dearly, that I had loved him for years, and probably always would. Moreover, experiencing her more demonstrative affections led me to suspect what I had never realized while living with him: that Holmes, in his own way, might have loved me, too. Might still love me, as I loved him.

I never spoke of it, not to Mary, and certainly not to Holmes. And then Holmes was gone, dead at Reichenbach Falls. The question of my love for him, or his for me, hardly seemed to matter anymore, except to my grieving heart.

Time passed. The pain of love lost never truly goes away, and the lack of opportunity to openly grieve just makes the wound fester. Mary did her best to help me through my melancholy after my return from Switzerland, and never once questioned the depths – or cause – of my emotion. In society’s eyes, I recovered, but I remained changed, prone to occasional black fits that only reminded me more of him whom I had lost. I might have continued that way for years, but Mary all unwittingly gave me one last, terrible gift. In publicly mourning her, I was able to find some relief in giving vent to the profound grief I felt at the loss of both my loves.

Small wonder, then, that I fainted when one of them returned from the grave. Holmes attributed my collapse to shock, not emotion. I did not correct him. I did not speak of what I truly felt.

Perhaps I never would have, if it had not been for the Affair of Ex-President Murillo’s Papers, and the closet in the office where the papers were stored. It was one of the first cases Holmes undertook after his return, and of course it was on Mycroft’s behest. It required switching the real papers for clever fakes, in order to flush out the spy in a certain section of government. In the old days Holmes would have undoubtedly gone by himself, but in the aftermath of his return he seemed as reluctant to leave me out of a case as I was to be left behind.

So I went with him to break into the office, and it was I who heard the utterly unexpected approach of the spy on the stair, and it was I who alerted Holmes to our imminent discovery. It was Holmes, however, who had noted the closet, and who swiftly whisked us both inside. We stood together, peering through the narrow crack Holmes had left, hoping to see the face of the traitor. Inevitably, being there with him, like that, brought back visceral memories of that other closet. I closed my eyes, fighting the sudden wash of emotions that threatened to undo me. Dimly, I heard noises in the office, of the desk drawer being opened, of papers rifled, a soft sound of satisfaction.

As once before, I felt the sensation of strong fingers grasping my chin, but this time the grip was gentle, the fingers trembling. I opened my eyes and saw Holmes staring at me with the most profound look of naked longing that I had ever seen on any human countenance. Longing, and desire, and a bitter yearning that held no expectation of ever being satisfied. Our mission – and perhaps our very lives – required that I remain silent, but I could not fail to answer that look. Acting on instinct, I tenderly tugged his fingers away from my chin and brought them to my lips, where I pressed them with a burning kiss.

We became lovers that night in truth, as we had never been in any of our previous carnal encounters. Our return to Baker Street was marked by none of that frantic, feverish urgency that had so characterized our rush to our rooms after witnessing the events in the warehouse basement, all those years ago. We rode decorously together in an open hansom, but there was tension all the same. Holmes kept stealing glances at me, as if he could not quite believe that I was there, or that he doubted that I meant what I had silently promised him, there in the office closet. His uncharacteristic uncertainly remained until we had retired to his bedroom, and, under the watchful eyes of the portraits of criminals that adorned his walls, we slowly and tenderly laid each other bare. His hands skimmed over my body, the long, sensitive fingers exploring every inch of me with all the care and attention he showed to his beloved violin, and playing me with similar skill. In turn, I explored every change in his body that had occurred in the years we had been apart, cataloguing them with lips and teeth and tongue.

He did not say the words, but I felt it in every touch, deduced it in every kiss, knew it in every movement of our bodies together over the hours we spent bringing each other to bliss. I sensed it within me as surely as I sensed _him_ within me. And afterwards, he held me in his arms, saying nothing, but pressing soft kisses into my hair as I succumbed to slumber.

I told him that I loved him that night, and have repeated it as often as I dare, in word and in deed. He still has never said that he loves me. But I have seen it in his actions every day, on cases, at concerts, in the music he plays for me on his violin, in his struggles to avoid taking his infernal drugs, and most of all in the privacy of the rooms we share at Baker Street. I know I have his love, and that is enough; I have sufficient words for the both of us. I am a writer, after all.

And he has never, not once, questioned my sudden fondness for closets.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted June 6, 2011


End file.
